Ratatouille

Ratatouille

In a slow‑cooked cauldron where the sauce is mellow,
Peppers, courgettes, tomato paint the story yellow,
Eggplant curls like velvet, their skin a deep‑purple hue,
A French‑inspired feast that makes the heart feel new.

First the onion, diced, with garlic’s fragrant thrum,
Stirs in the pan, rises with a golden‑brown drum.
Then the carrots, thin‑sliced, soft as green‑thick moss,
Cause the flavours to mingle, in aromatic toss.

The courgettes slide in, their skins like soft‑green lace,
A touch of thyme, a swirl of rosemary’s embrace.
I bring it to a simmer, patience is the key—
A bubbling, slow‑cooked soup for all to see.

Ratatouille, my darling, true praise to you,
Complex yet simple, culinary review.
In every spoonful, the rustic country’s glow,
A simmering caption of where the flavours grow.

On the table, scones and crusty bread stand by,
A drizzle of olive oil, a sprig of fresh‑spry.
A spoonful of colour, a medley bright and bold,
With every bite, a story newly told.

So here's to veg, in casserole or stew,
A nod to France, but home in its brew.
Where herbs and skin meet in an artful fable,
That tasteful share, the sweet delight of a merry staple.